


For He Who Died In Love

by neverlandlumos



Category: The Hobbit, The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit (2012) RPF, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, though the thorinduil is quite mild
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-28
Updated: 2013-01-28
Packaged: 2017-11-27 06:06:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/658765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverlandlumos/pseuds/neverlandlumos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I will not save him."</p>
            </blockquote>





	For He Who Died In Love

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [For He Who Died In Love (Chinese Version)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1294792) by [yinhc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yinhc/pseuds/yinhc)



> neverlandlost.tumblr.com

To hear the news of Thorin’s expected death floored Bilbo like nothing else. He and Thorin may have had their differences, his antics regarding the Arkenstone surely wedged anger and betrayal between them. Bilbo is regretful, somewhat, at the turn of events, though he does not regret them.

Bilbo forced his eyes shut when Thorin reacts upon seeing Fili’s death, mouth open in his horror, at loss for what to do or how to react, the young dwarf stabbed through the chest to save his uncle’s life. Fili held on for some time, his voice lost in his throat, eyes clouded with impending death. Bilbo cried at the sight. Kili became wild, untameable in his grief; killing and destroying deployments of their enemies, his heart shattered with despair. Never stopping, never slowing down, slowly turning into a machine as Fili’s death hangs over him heavily. 

But Thorin grieved. It is an expected response upon seeing your nephew killed in battle, but Thorin wept. He no longer fought, his own body weakened, damaged and dying. He remembers Thorin, chanting what seemed a prayer in Khuzdul, mumbled by his lips against Fili’s forehead. The battle went on around them, but Thorin paid it no heed, wrapping his arms around his fallen nephew while his army and their allies fought to the end.

Gandalf was forced to pry the king to a medicinal bed, forcing his injuries to be looked upon and cared for. Bilbo remembers the deathly silence that followed Thorin’s demand to see Kili. Thorin closed his eyes with a choked sob and curled around himself, seeking no comfort from others.

“He has fallen, also,” Balin informed him shakily, his eyes closed.

 

“How?” 

 

“Archers, my King. Four to his vital organs.” Balin tells him, and lowers his head. 

Thorin did not move for several minutes, but he did rise and pad around the tent and outside. Many dwarf-healers called out after him, but Gandalf silenced them. Bilbo and several other members of their company followed Thorin, who walked through the gates of his beloved Erebor and inside.

Inside the extraordinary city, lay the dead. Bilbo’s eyes prickled at the number of dwarves who lay in their peace, covered by blankets made of wool. The beauty of the lost mountain was no pleasure in the King’s heart as he found the bodies of his nephews on the golden table, made for the King. Thorin fell silent and unmoving, eyes never leaving Fili and Kili’s bodies that lay afar.

“We must speak of diplomacy, Thorin,” Thranduil says softly. “I know you care not, but we must.”

Thorin walks forward, looking down at his nephews faces but turns and finally faces his company. Bilbo smiles sadly at the King. Bilbo sees the tears that rolled down Thorin’s face, uncaring in his loss. “I know of no diplomacy,” Thorin responds, his voice cracked as though parched. “I know only grief.” 

“We are sorry, Thorin,” Balin attempts, shaking his head. “We are so sorry.”

Thorin looks away, and out over the bodies of those who fought for him, their kingdom and their freedom. He closes his eyes and reaches for the bench, clenching the sides tightly, his knuckles turning white under the strain.

Bilbo bites his lip, and watches as Thorin falls to his knees and howls, his chest heaving as he weeps. He clutches to the table and attempts to steady himself somewhat, his head bowed so that his hair covers his face. Balin steps forward with Gandalf and they together approach the king, who sobs brokenly murmuring things under his breath in his native tongue.

Gandalf heaves the King into his arms and begins to walk back out of the Mountain city and return to the tent. Before he does so, he turns to Thranduil and says sharply, “Come with us.”

The elf-king nods at the wizard gracefully. Bilbo walks alongside Gandalf, unable to tear his eyes away from Thorin’s face, even as he hangs limply in this grip. Thorin’s eyes, his bright blue eyes, are darkened, and glazed over as though effected by potion. He looks dead, inside.

Upon reaching the tent, Gandalf carefully lays Thorin upon the bed, removing the dwarf’s heavy clothing and peering down at the injuries that scatter his chest. The blood pools on his chest, and drips down his ribs onto the white bedding. A nurse-maid quickly address them with salve and bandages them, but the wounds are too deep and too damaging to be healed.

Thranduil stands directly behind Thorin’s head, holding the dwarf’s head in his hands with careful, caressing movements. Gandalf gives the elf-king a small nod. Thranduil bends down, bringing his face close to Thorin’s own, when Thorin’s eyes flicker open, wide and wet.

“Please do not do this,” Thorin begs the elf, hands grasping Thranduil’s where they rest on his cheeks. “I beg you, do not do this.”

“Thorin,” Thranduil whispers, “you cannot ask this of me.” The elf moves around the table so that he is standing at Thorin’s side, his face contorted into a deep frown, but his eyes deceive him. Bilbo knows now what Thorin is asking of the elf-king, and attempts to protest himself, but Balin shakes his head at him softly, silencing him.

“Please,” Thorin whispers as Thranduil sits aside him on the bed. The nurse maid places a pillow under his head, raising it slightly so he can look the elf in the face as he speaks. 

“I cannot be a king with this grief in my heart,” Thorin chokes out, tears spilling from his eyes and into his hairline. The dwarf-king’s chest heaves with difficult breaths, his body struggling to fight the injuries it has suffered. A gentle wheezing rattles his lungs as he draws in air to speak.

“Time shall heal your wounds,” Thranduil replies, the usual elvish resolves has no place here as Thranduil’s tone slips to begging. “Please, mellon nin. Allow me to heal you.”

“I c-cannot,” Throin stutters, his eyes begging Thranduil in return. “They were like my very own. Without them I surely fail, lost within myself.” Thranduil stays still and silent at Thorin’s words, and after some internal revelations reaches for Thorin’s forehead with tentative fingers. 

Thorin jolts on the bed, slapping the elf’s fingers away and struggles into a seated position. He grabs the elf’s face roughly, forcing their foreheads together frantically. “If you ever loved me,” Thorin says, “you will let me go.”

Bilbo knows the king is dying, but it does not stop the heavy feeling of loss in his heart at the words he has spoken. Thranduil pulls back from him with wide eyes. He searches Thorin’s face with a shocked expression before saying, “that is petty of you, Thorin, to use that against me.” The elf spits out angrily, but he does not move. “Despite our quarrels, I cannot watch you die in my arms.”

“Please,” Thorin repeats, his eyes begging. “Let me rest. I need to rest, Thranduil. I am… finished.” He lays back down with a pained groan. He places his hands upon his chest, awaiting his impending death. “Let me go.”

“Thorin,” Thranduil says hesitantly, reaching out and grasping Thorin’s hand in his own. The elf-king’s breath hitches at the delayed impact of the words as he feigns an emotionless face, but crumbles and scrunches his eyes shut before the tears welling in his eyes can fall. He gives a small tilt of his head. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Thorin breathes and makes a strange gesture with his hands, which Bilbo assumes is Inglishmek. Dain approaches the bed when the dwarf-king requests him dutifully. Dain leans down and presses his forehead to Thorin’s, who offers him a weak smile.

“You keep this mountain yours,” Thorin commands, trying to regain focus, his voice becoming small and tired. “My King.”

Dain pulls back quickly, purses his lips, blinking quickly to rid his eyes of tears. “I did not want this cousin, this is your kingdom, not mine! You fought long and hard for this kingdom, Thorin. Please do not give up. Allow the elf to heal you!”

“Aye, but you shall be a great King in my stead. Promise me something, Dain.”

Dain sniffles but keeps his eyes closed even as he nods in agreement. The dwarf bites his lips and runs bloodied and dirty hands over his chin and down his beard.

“Bury me with them.” 

“I promise,” Dain confirms, caressing Thorin’s cheek with the back of his hand. “In the main halls, shall lay you and your nephews, Thorin. Together.”

Thorin chokes out a sob, but smiles broadly up at his cousin, before Dain turns on his heel and leaves the tent. Bilbo knows, Dain is not setting out for kingly duties, he does not wish to weep in front of the people he will soon command, nor see his cousin draw his last breaths. 

“He is near,” Gandalf states, who closes his eyes and gently rumbles a small poem in Khuzdul out of respect for Thorin.

Thorin takes a deep breath, and releases it slowly, and shakily reaches for Balin’s hand. Thorin’s head rolls to side, facing Balin, who looks down at him with sad eyes. “B-Balin,” Thorin croaks, gasping at the strain, “thank you for everything. For… everything…” Thorin trails off. He inhales deeply and exhales slowly and after several seconds, or even minutes he can’t be sure, Bilbo knows the dwarf-king has left them.

“He is gone,” says Balin, his eyes puffy and red as he looks down at Thorin’s body. “He is gone.”

Bilbo asks Thranduil roughly, “why did you not heal him anyway?”

Thranduil looks at him with sad, cold eyes. Bilbo knew even after so much bad blood had been spilled between them, that there was an underlining love that connected them. He heard from other dwarves in the company that Thranduil often visited Erebor with no other intention nor quest but to see Thorin and he alone. 

“I will not save him. Not if he does not wish it so. He wished to be at peace. I cannot rob him of that.” He presses a kiss to Thorin’s forehead and to his lips chastely, pressing gentle fingers to his eyelids, forcing them to close. “Amin mela lle ten’oio.” The elf-king murmurs to Thorin’s lips, grasping his cheeks. He stands to his full height and peers down at Thorin’s face wistfully, regretfully, with a nod to Gandalf, leaves the tent to reunite his own people.

Bilbo remembers that Thorin had severe weaknesses, he fell to greed and war, blood and gold, but he was an exceptional king to his people. He built them a new life, and risked his own for a better one. The thread of corruption within him bested him, turned him foolish and relentless, though love was a defining motive for Thorin’s actions. He remembers Balin explaining the quest for Erebor and why they were reclaiming it now.

“Thorin believed he was gettin’ old, laddie. Running out of time ‘cause he wanted Fili to be a King of a whole race, a happy, and powerful race, like they were. Not scattered in towns of Men, poor and isolated. He wanted Fili to be a King. A proud and noble one, unlike himself.”

Bilbo knows in his heart Erebor meant nothing to Thorin without the cheerful chatter of his nephews by his side. It meant nothing to him that the halls were paved with gems and jewels. Bilbo knows it was love that took Thorin in the end, not greed.


End file.
